Homebrew Hereticus
by Toasterman
Summary: There are only supposed to be a thousand chapters of the Adeptus Astartes, but suddenly there are many, many more. It has fallen to one Inquisitor to suss out which chapters belong, and which are home-brewed disasters that deserve to be blown back to the tabletop.


Homebrew Hereticus

Chapter Master Boris frowned. He held a plasma pistol in each hand. This was tradition: the Chapter Master of the Dark Stars always held two plasma pistols. Each one was a holy relic. One was named _Ad Infinitum Mortis_. The other was named _Fuckin Hot_. He held the pistols because he didn't have any holsters, which was another tradition of the Dark Stars. Holsters symbolized the staying of righteous wrath, and the Dark Stars would have none of it.

Sometimes tradition was stupid.

Chapter Master Boris frowned because of his current predicament. An entire fleet had appeared in orbit over his chapter home world, and though they flew Imperial colors, they had opened fire on his fleet and destroyed the whole thing. There were no more Dark Stars ships. Even now, his company captains prepped the walls of their fortress monastery for a ground attack. Chapter Master Boris himself stood in the strategium, beneath a stained glass window depicting fellow black armored Space Marines heroically defeating orks.

"Make the connection," he growled, sending human serfs fleeing. "I would see the face of my attacker."

Just then, the occulus screen in the strategium fizzled and resolved into the image of a woman in a dark coat. Chapter Master Boris looked at her. "Inquisitor," he said.

The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow. "How did you know? We've never met."

"You are wearing black and attacked me with a whole fleet," said Chapter Master Boris. "I went out on a limb."

"Fair enough. I'll spare you the pleasantries, Chapter Master. I'm Inquisitor Antoinetta Drach, Ordo Hereticus. I kill heretics, and you're a heretic."

"I believe you are confused," Chapter Master Boris said, willing to be amicable. "The Dark Stars have served the Imperium for over ten thousand years. We are a Second Founding Chapter, madam."

Inquisitor Drach sighed. "Damnit, not you, too."

"Your pardon?"

"Look, Boris, I'll be level with you. You aren't a real Space Marine. This isn't a real chapter. Even your planet shouldn't exist."

"I am confused."

Drach rolled her eyes. "Okay, I'll put it to you this way. Describe your homeworld."

"Velian VI is an industrial world, known for its high concentration of plasma minerals. That's how we can afford to equip all of our Astartes with plasmaguns."

"That's exactly what our report has. I searched every Imperial data-trove I could find, and that was all I could find, word-for-word."

"It is the truth."

"No, it's stupid." Drach crossed her arms. "Do you know how much paperwork an Imperial planet puts out? It's a lot. Trade manifests, tithing records, geological survey reports, PDF requisition forms, Administratum daily reports, propaganda demographics, meteorological scripts, planetary genetic purity cross-sections, and on and on. It's an insane amount of data. Yet all I have on Velian VI is 'Industrial world, high concentration of plasma minerals, and the Dark Stars live there or something.'"

"We pride ourselves on brevity."

"Plasma minerals," said Drach. "Do they have a more specific name, or just plasma minerals?"

"Madam, that is their scientific name."

"By Terra, you actually believe that." Drach shook her head. "Chapter Master, the Dark Stars are not a Space Marine Chapter. You are the result of a spasmodic shift in the space-time continuum wherein the fever dreams of several thousand misguided, adolescent human males were made manifest in our reality."

"That does not make sense."

Drach leaned forward. "You are a moron's approximation of a Space Marine Chapter. That's why your Chapter history, traditions, and doctrine are all completely stupid. I mean, why would you give every Astartes a plasmagun? That's such a stupid idea. That's, like, an insane attrition rate. How many Marines do you lose to weapons misfires each year?"

Boris was quiet for a moment. "Around a hundred. Give or take."

"You lose an entire Company to weapons misfires per year," said Drach.

"Well, we are still Legion strength."

"Of course you are!" Drach turned to someone off-pict from her. "Why are they always Legion strength?"

"Madam, you are a deceitful witch and—"

Drach spun back around. "Look at your armor! It's black!"

"That is our heraldry!"

"No, it's just black. There's nothing there but black. One coat of flat black and a sloppy, dopey star on one shoulder pad."

"There is significance to that symbol!"

"That it's a dark star and you're the Dark Stars?"

"Of course!"

"From our records, we see you think you are descendants of the Salamanders."

"Mighty Vulkan is our forefather and grandsire, may we all honor him"

The strategium lit with the basal drone of twenty Astartes speaking as one. "HONOR TO VULKAN, FOREFATHER AND GRANDSIRE, GREATEST DRAGON."

"We know that the Salamanders prefer to state that there are no successors to their honored lineage," said Boris. "But, in truth, there are several dozen such chapters. Most even have clones of their greatest captain, Vulkan He'Stan himself, to lead them in battle."

Drach raised an eyebrow. "Right, okay. I'm going to bomb your planet to pieces, now."

"Cowardly wench!" Boris raised _Ad Infinitum Mortis_ and _Fuckin Hot_ to the sky, very impressively. "You shirk from facing us upon the ground."

"Well, as hilariously tragic as it would be to watch random elements of your infantry sections literally immolate themselves with their stupid plasmaguns, I think we're going to take the easy way out." Drach took one last look at the Chapter Master, conceived in arrogance by some stupid kid from another reality. "If it's any consolation, you and your brothers are far from the dumbest false Astartes we've killed in the past year. Have a happy Exterminatus."

The occulus went offline. In the next hour, Velian VI, its defenders, and all of its valuable plasma minerals were destroyed in a tide of lance fire and virus bombs.


End file.
